


Not Dead. Score One For The Red Shirt

by Penndragon



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 08:36:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penndragon/pseuds/Penndragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aaron isn't dead. Paranoia says this is a condition that can't (and probably won't) last for long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Dead. Score One For The Red Shirt

Not dead. Score one for the red shirt.

In the aftermath Aaron took inventory. Everything hurt, but he was still alive. And, if nothing else, he would always have the memory of soaring like a particularly chunky Superman from an exploding supernova. Just as long as always lasted longer than the next thirty minutes he was golden.

Aaron opened his eyes to the sound of cursing – who knew eyelids could suffer from concussion – and a moon stained orange. That he could hear Miles swearing up a storm was a good sign. That he could see Miles fending off a harem determined to strip the shirt from his back probably meant he was right about the concussion. Or it could have been a normal day. Whatever, he looked away. He could live without knowing Miles Matheson showed no signs of middle age moobs. 

Aaron ran a hand over his face. Sore and stiff as though he'd sat too long in the sun, but a fingertip search said he still had a nose. His eyebrows and face fuzz were still intact, so points for the tuck and roll, but damn, everything else was up for debate. A quick glance down confirmed he still had all his extremities, and nothing seemed to be gushing, leaking or weeping; but every muscle seemed to have stiffened and his hip felt sore to the touch. Aaron wondered how bruised his ass was. He was willing to bet walking was going to be less fun than ever now. 

The cursing started up again, and Aaron rolled his eyes (yep, eyeball concussion, actually a thing.) Sniping and grumbling hard enough you'd almost believe he hated the attention, the hero of the hour had rescued the damson in distress and was getting all the just desserts that came from that. 

Fussed over by Charlie, squinted at by Nora who couldn't or wouldn't accept that the mighty Matheson was wound firmly round his niece's finger, and soundly stinkeyed by Rachel, Miles was just one of those men who'd been kicked in the 'nads by the karma fairy. Aaron was willing to bet Miles didn't have a bruised ass. Hell, when Miles had been blasted halfway across the lot, a horde of fuzzy winged cherubs had probably fought for the privilege of breaking his fall. That, or demons. Who knew which side was looking out for him. That would explain why the man was so damned good at everything. Up to, and including having once been one half of the dynamically deadly duo, and building a militia to be, if not proud of, then at least a little bit smug. After all, it turned out the militia had at least one man who could shoot straight.

He probably shouldn't have laughed at that, because it just drew a dark, suspicious glance. Too often lately, Miles had looked at him just a fraction too long. Narrow eyed, speculative, at times the frustration barely wiped away before Charlie caught a glimpse of her uncle's true face. As if he was wondering how much Aaron knew and how much longer he was going to keep quiet about it. Or maybe, just maybe, he was contemplating a solution to the problem that made dead weight a lot lighter and a hell of a lot deader. 

Aaron didn't want to think about that. No way could he outrun the twin swords of Damocles. 

No illusions here. Aaron knew he wasn't a hero. Even saving Nora's life – and why hadn't anyone looked at him like he was made of special – had been more accident than intent. Maybe a little intent, but mostly crapping himself. He was the fat guy. The amusing interlude between action scenes. The guy you just knew was going to meet a grisly end. Crispy crittered. Eaten by bears. Butted over a cliff by an angry goat. Any or all of those things. Probably more. He was the red shirt. 

Mostly though? He was pretty sure he was the cockblock. 

No, no illusions at all.

Still, now Rachel and Danny were here, it would get easier, right? Nora might be blind but a mother and brother? They'd see, wouldn't they? 

Scratch that. One look at Danny said the boy had other things to worry about. Huddled next to Charlie, as close as he could get without being in her skin, his arms folded around himself. Danny's face was blank, gazing skywards as though he expected flying monkeys to swoop him back to the great and powerful Oz. Shell shocked? Moonstruck? Moonlight glazed his hair, bleached pale skin to chalk, and stained blood black. The slump of shoulders that carried the weight of the world drew Charlie's glance. A sidelong look that said everything. Wanting to ask. Scared to probe. Afraid to know.

Aaron shut his eyes and crossed off the boy that had tried to be a man. 

M.O.O.N. Moon. That spelled Danny Matheson. 

Burying a sigh behind tucked lips, Aaron smothered the ridiculous reminder that the one thing he and Miles Matheson shared was the memory of book.

Miles had already cast himself in the role of the reluctant hero. A wild child made good, leading a rag tag band of survivors to a brave new world. 

So what did that make him? 

Miles watched him a lot these days. More than ever. And now that Rachel was back? He didn't think that was going to help. If anything, it seemed likely it would make things worse. All those secrets. All those lies. No, Aaron had the sinking feeling Miles already had that bit all worked out. Yep, it seemed likely he was being cast in the role of Nick. Deaf, mute, and destined to die at the hands of a traitor. 

 


End file.
